San Francisco

Not the Golden Gate Bridge

I have been in San Francisco for a few days and it is definitely a change.

The hills are far more intense than I had imagined.

We are staying on the edge of the Little Italy and Chinatown. I guess it is the San Francisco equivalent of Mott and Spring Street. The pork buns are incredible.

The apartment  is rather old, several layers of paint lock some of the windows shut.

The windows are the kind with ripples and imperfections.

They make the view even more amusing.

I am in love with the stove.

There is so much lush greenery, but few trees.

I have been appreciating the strangeness of the buildings.

Some of them look as is they were made of Wedgewood china.

Everything is so pretty, I feel as if I have nothing to add.

 

The hills distort the distances. What looks like a short walk turns into an epic journey.

Haight-Ashbury was really pretty with lots of colors and decorations. But there were also sad, faint echos of what was there before.

This tree is on one of the rare tree-lined streets, the angle of which threw me off balance when I looked up.